Madison times. (Tallulah, Madison Parish, La.) 1884-1???, 1887-10-29
THE DYING APACHE.
A Dakota Wildcat Devours a
Wounded Indian.

ed over. We were fifty feet above
valley-a little paradise, in which the
flowers blossomed. the sweet grass
grew knee high, and the ground birds
built their nests without fear OF an
enemy.
Each man of MS feasted his eyes in
silence. 1t seemed as if word spoken
aloud would shatter the picture which
Nature had painted solely for herself
There was Il long five minutes before
any of Us looked straight down, and
then we saw a s. ght to make our blood
Jingle. An Ind an warrior, evidently
shot through the hips and his lower
limbs paralyzed, had dragged himself
along the base of cliff 10 a spring
Just under our faces. We looked to
the right and followed his trail to
where a point of thicket ran into the
valley. He had come inch by inch,
leaving his life-blood TO crimson the
whitc-faced flowers and dye the grass
dull red.
"Shn'
We bend over to note the last few
feet of his progress. He is represen-
tative warr.or-tall. strong and full of
such courage rs nature gives only to
her children Of the mountain and prai-
RE. He draws himself along as if he
were q log. Every movement must
cost him terrible pain, but even here,
alone rs he believes himself, he will not
Cry out
He reaches the water and laps it like
q dog. 1t seems as if he could never
drink enough. He has been hours
crawling this half mile, and all the time
a horrible fever has been searching
every vein and parching his tongue.
He finally turns from the water. pulls
himself about with heroic effort, and
now he rests on his side and faces the
valley. 1t is as if he felt his last mo-
ment approaching, and meant to die
with his face to the beautiful picture.
He must have been armed, but in that
terrible struggle to reach the spring he
has lightened himself of every thing
which could make the journey last a
second longer.
Cry out and encourage him? Seek
a place and descend and succor himp
He is an Apache. Let that be the ex-
cuse for making no movement He
was born TO hate the white man. Such
a feeling as gratitude never entered his
heart. In his dying hour he would
Stay the man who bent over him with
water to quench his fever. Implacable
-bloodthirsty to the last-leave him to
die as he has lived. Were the film of
death already covering his orbs he
would concentrate his last strength in
to one yell of alarm to bring his fellows
upon us.
Look!
The great cat of the mountains-the
puma of South America, the panther
of the deep wilderness of the North
has crept out of the thicket. and is
smiling at the bloody trail. The soft
breeze bore the scent to her lair as she
slept. and she awoke to show her vel
low fangs and lick her blood-red lips.
Never had she shifted az such a trail.
Never did drops of blood lead so sure
ly to victim.
All! Her tongue has licked the blood
from the daisies. and she arches her
back, shoots fire from her eyes and
tears at the grass with her long claws.
Ten drops of human blood have arous-
ed all her ferocity. Her long tail sweeps
the ground, her lips fall away from the
cruel fangs, and she crouches down to
follow the bloody trail. The. lion or
tiger would have taken it with a rush.
h. of mt 81
a snake. The trail is zigzag. She fol-
lows every curve.
We can see Ter, even TO the flash of
her eyes--the working of her muscles
the qu.ver of impaticnce that runs
through her now and then. She must
pass around a large rock which has
fallen from the cliff into the valley be-
fore she can see her victim, Or before
the warrior can see her.
Three white men with hearts which
know pity-three rifles which carry to
the death. Shall we shootp
No. The sound of + fle might bring
q score of Apache devils hunting for us.
The cat might lay dead before their
eyes-the wounded warrior might owe
us his life. but we should 90 TO the
stake for all that-to the torture by
fire and knife and tomahawk. They
could not forgive us for being white
men,
Ugh! The cat halts now and then
TO lick at Il larger spot of blood-a
place where the warrior, overcome by
pain, had to take longer rest. 1t
makes the flesh creep to see the glare
i'll her eyes and to hear the deep growl
she utters in ferocious satisfaction.
Now she slowly and carefully creeps
around the rock, hugging the ground
until one standing beside the spring
could hardly have made her out. She
is in full sight of the warrior, who lies
only two hundred feet away. He must
also see her, for his eyes are turned
that way.
All! Did you notice his start of sur
prise? 1t was not fear. The Apache
warrior fears nothing which inhabts
the earth or the waters thereof. He is
wounded and defenscless, but he does
not fear. He can die, and die bravery.
Not another unconventional even II Lift.
ing of the proud head.
Watch, now! You will never see
such another spectacle, although you
live thousand years. The shadow OF
death and the footsteps of Fate are
imaginary. Here is the reality. Hero
is the shadow, but there are no foot
steps. In place of them Is Green,
creep, creep. that makes our hearts
Sc up unit we can hardly breathe.
And such 4 shadow! And such merc,-
less Fate! With eyes which seem to lie
red balls of fire--w.th claws which Dig
deep into tie soil-witb teeth uncoc.